Chapter 4

The rented place was so small that it couldn't fit all my clothes, shoes, and bags. When I moved in, I folded everything and crammed it into the closet.

When I was done, there were still two coats with nowhere to go, so I hung them behind the door.

That night, lying in bed, the ceiling felt so low. I could hear the thud of footsteps from the apartment upstairs.

I stared at the ceiling, thinking about my old place. It was 1,500 square feet, quiet, clean, all white.

Then I thought about Xavier.

What was he doing right now? Had he signed the divorce papers? Or had he already forgotten about it—back at work, back in meetings, maybe throwing another birthday party for his assistant.

My phone rang.

It was Xavier calling.

I watched his name blink on the screen for a while. On the seventh ring, I finally answered. "Hello?"

"Where are you?" Xavier's voice sounded a little anxious. I'd never heard him like this before, and it caught me off guard.

"Is something wrong?" I asked.

"Where did you go? You're not answering your phone, not replying to my texts. What are you trying to do?"

I didn't reply.

He paused, his voice softening a bit. "Come back. Let's sit down and talk."

"Talk about what?"

"About—" He hesitated. "About what's on your mind. I know I've been busy and neglected your feelings. But you can't run away from home like that."

I was stunned for a second, then couldn't help but laugh. "Xavier, I'm not running away from home. I'm getting a divorce. Those are two completely different things."

There was a long silence on the other end.

"The scarf," he said, "I brought it back. If that's why you're upset—"

"That's not it."

"Then why?"

I looked out the window. Outside was another building, its gray walls lined with windows. Some were lit up, others were dark.

"Xavier," I said, "do you remember what you said on our first date?"

There was silence on the other end.

"You told me you really liked me," I went on. "You hesitated for ages before you finally said it. I saw your lips move a few times before you finally got the words out.

"Back then, I thought you were so clueless. You couldn't confess your feelings correctly.

"But later, I realized you weren't clueless. You weren't that into me."

"Susan..."

"After you said you liked me, we got together. We dated, then got married. Everything went so smoothly; I thought this was what love was supposed to be.

"But after we got married, I slowly realized something. You never made the first move.

"When we were dating, I was always the one reaching out first. If you didn't reply, I'd tell myself you were busy. If you didn't ask me out, I'd think you were tired.

"If you never said you missed me, I'd tell myself you weren't good at expressing yourself. I've been telling myself these things for eight years, Xavier. I can't keep doing this anymore."

On the other end, silence lingered.

I could hear him breathing, slow and steady.

After a long silence, he said, "I know I haven't been good enough."

"It's not that you weren't good enough. It's because you didn't love me enough.

"Forget it. Let's drop it. Did you sign the divorce papers?"

He didn't answer.

"Just mail them to me when you're done," I said. "I'll text you the address. And that scarf... toss it. I don't want it anymore."

"Susan."

I hung up.

Then I blocked his number, deleted him from all my socials, and cut off every way he could reach me, one by one.

After that, I lay back down on the bed.

Upstairs, the footsteps kept going.

I closed my eyes.

*****

The next day at work, my colleague did a double-take when she saw me. "Susan, did you cut your hair?"

I ran my fingers through my new chin-length bob and smiled. "Just needed a fresh start."

"It looks great. You look younger."

Young? I was thirty-three. I was not really old, but if one stacked me up against Xavier's twenty-two-year-old assistant, I was a whole eleven years older.

I sat down, booted up my computer, and started editing a teen romance novel.

It was about a girl who had a crush on a boy for years. In the end, the boy told her, "You're great, but I don't love you."

The girl asked him why, and he said, "There's no reason. I don't love you."

I closed the manuscript, leaned back in my chair, and stared out the window, zoning out.